


Hyperbola

by DorMarunt



Series: Parabola [2]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andres/Berlin, Come Swapping, Companion Piece, I mean I could be more specific but this is FILTH?, M/M, Multi, Praise Kink, Rimming, Selfcest, Someone gets poked in the eye, There’s so much plowing in this it could be a Farmer AU, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25607914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/pseuds/DorMarunt
Summary: “Really?” Martín remembered to use his voice. With a fresh gasp, he lit up. “You do realise this means you have the possibility to fuck yourself, right?” Amused, pleased, way too interested in the idea. “Do you know how many people have told you to go fuck yourself?”TL;DR: An agent interrupts Andrés and Martín’s ~special time, he reveals information about the repercussions of their actions on the Agency, they all spend some ~special time together, the Agent then reveals tantalizing information.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa / Palermo | Martín Berrote / Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: Parabola [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856038
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Hyperbola

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shotgun_Cake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/gifts).



> I thought the Time Husbands should go out with a bang!  
> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> Though it may have slightly cracky undertones, it actually adds some more things about Martín and Andrés in the Parabola universe, about the Agency and everything else. 
> 
> It is also smut. Like- there’s a lot going on in this, and only a small amount is the kind that can be talked about in polite company. I went full-on self indulgent in this.  
> Seriously. Suspend all disbelief before entering, and be prepared for smut.

“Don’t worry, I closed off the time pocket before stepping in.” 

The voice that made both Andrés and Martín nearly die on the spot belonged to a man that appeared in the room suddenly, simply materializing out of thin air and immediately starting to talk. 

Andrés gasped. Martín yelped, then coughed to try and hide the undignified sound he made. They both looked at him in slack-jawed awe, not daring to move, to take their eyes off the apparition.

“Aww, you’ve gone soft.” Said Martín, looking down between them _. He  _ hadn’t. In fact, his dick was confused but pleasantly intrigued, because the man who had appeared in the room, rudely and impossibly, was Andrés.

An older version of Andrés; somewhere in his fifties, Martín would have to guess, more than a little delighted. The man sure aged like fine wine.

Nobody seemed to talk for the longest time, and Martín was scrambling to cover himself. No logical reason, it just seemed like the thing one did in such situations. Andrés eventually pulled out of Martín, rolling to the side and stealing most of the sheet to cover himself, making Martín throw his hands up in annoyance. It took a while to settle on the best question given the circumstances, but Martín eventually broke the silence with a, “What?”

“Um- I’m sorry.” Said the other Andrés. The one wearing all the clothes, the older one. He addressed Martín, though looking just a bit over his shoulder and to the right. “I didn’t quite expect to find you like this.”

Again, silence, as both Martín and Andrés - the naked one this time - seemed to rifle through way too many thoughts. 

“Did the Agency send you?” Andrés asked. Finally, a pertinent question.

“Well, not ‘sent’ me as such.”

“Why can’t I sense you? Can  _ you _ sense him?” Martín turned to Andrés -  _ his _ Andrés - who shook his head no. It was an unsettling feeling, to have an Agent present but to be unable to feel him, and Martín wondered whether that’s how it was always for Andrés when he was around him.

“Upgrade. There were quite a few of those since you left.” Said the man, a curl on the corner of his lip. “Since _ the both of you  _ left; thank you for the confirmation, Martín. The Agency always suspected you somehow made yourself untraceable; instead of just vanishing into thin air. I, personally, thought that you’d also jumped into your own body but there was no way to test it, no proof; and what with the sheer impossibility of this Andrés right here… it was just a theory.” Then, he added reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell HQ.” 

“What are you doing here?” asked Martín.

“Well, turns out that your very first jump into the body of Andrés de Fonollosa,” he addressed Andrés now, “the one who got shot in the back by this guy right here,” the older Andrés pointed at Martín, “he was an impossibility from the get-go. Because that particular Andrés de Fonollosa was the actual one that the Agency copied your -  _ our _ \- brainprint from.” 

Since no additional questions seemed to come, the man continued. “You basically jumped into your own body - into your own brain - before the Agency copied said brain. And then you died before they did so. All in the same timeline. You somehow became such a paradox that, for a short while, there were people at HQ tasked to finding out exactly what was going on.” 

Martín’s brows furrow, for just a second, before he turns to Andrés.

“Do you think that guy, in our safehouse after the Mint...? The first time I met you. Well,  _ you _ -you.”

“Could be; it would make sense with what he was saying about not touching me and being a taboo.” He turns to the man. “Did they ever send Agents to find me?”

The older Andrés seemed surprised at the question.

“No, not to my knowledge. Why?”

“Long story, it ends in murder. You know the drill.” Martín gestures with his hands and the older man frowns a bit, but continues. 

“That department has been disbanded because, well, you didn’t make any sense. They’ve since quarantined the timelines they copy Agents’ brains from. Nobody wants  _ that _ mess all over again. So they decided to let you do your own thing, and they reuploaded your brain-print into me. I mean, why let such a beautiful mind go to waste?”

“But you have a body.  _ My _ body.”

“Of course I- Oh, right. You were gone for  _ quite _ some time. The Agency got the fanciest little upgrades indeed. We can copy bodies too, now - flaws and all.” He looks pointedly at the younger version of himself. “Jumping is now both a lot... messier and a lot cleaner than you’d think.”

“So what are you doing here, again?” Martín asked, tugging at a corner of the sheet that was under Andrés’ leg. 

“I’ve heard of you two. You’re quite the gossip at HQ, you and your time-defying love.” 

Nobody said a word.

“So I came to see for myself, I guess.”

“Well, you’ve seen quite a bit, I should think.” That was Martín, more at ease now that he’d protected his modesty. 

“I have, yes.” The Agent finally looked at him, smiling Andrés’ crooked smile. One of Martín’s least confused boners was becoming distracting beneath the sheet in his lap, and he drew his knees up, confident in that he managed to hide absolutely nothing from absolutely no one.

“So you want to talk?” Asked the younger Andrés. “Because, as you may have noticed, this may not be the perfect time for chit-chat.”

The older man watched him, that smug shit-eating grin that Martín both loved and loathed, now turned to Andrés. 

“You do realize that, to a very large degree, I  _ am _ you, right? Separate people and all, but I still know what you’re thinking.” Andrés said nothing. “Because I’m thinking it too.”

Martín felt like he was missing a vital part of the conversation, so he looked at (his) Andrés, widening his eyes in a ‘ _ what is he talking about _ ?’ to which Andrés responded with an eyebrow rise, a coy smile and a small shrug. Martín actually gasped, eyeing his bedmate with a hint of amusement. Then, a questioning look, to which he got a nod.

The older Andrés was looking at them, amused. He did not want to interrupt.

“Really?” Martín remembered to use his voice. With a fresh gasp, he lit up. “You do realise this means you have the possibility to fuck yourself, right?” Amused, pleased, way too interested in the idea. “Do you know how many people have told you to go fuck yourself?”

Andrés laughed, head thrown back, an image Martín knew and cherished. Yeah, he was positively  _ whipped _ . So?

“Yes, and believe me, I’d love nothing more than to tell them that I did; and that I was  _ fantastic _ .”

“God, it’s worth going back to the Royal Mint just to see the look on Tokyo’s face when you tell her. Let’s do it the next time we’re doing the Mint heist. Please?”

“Deal.” And Andrés literally sealed it with a kiss.

Martín was still surprised that they managed to be like this, even after all this time. He thought they’d get bored of each other much sooner than they did - because they did for a while, spending a few lifetimes apart - but they eventually found each other again. They both knew it would be just the two of them, time and time again.

And now, because life was sometimes unfairly good to them, Martín had a whole extra Andrés to play with.

“Just so we’re clear, and using actual words,” the people around them had told them they used to do that, to understand each other without words now, and they called it ‘sweet’, af all things, “we’re actually doing this? Him?  _ You _ ?” Martín asked, looking at the older man. 

“Yes.” Said both men, the identical smiles on their faces fucking with Martín’s brain even further.

“And it’s not even my birthday!” The only reaction that Martín’s body deemed appropriate in the situation was to laugh, because, really. He’d had so many birthdays and it never ever crossed his mind to wish for this. And yet, here he was. 

His Andrés got up from the bed, way more at ease with his nakedness than Martín was, and slowly approached the older version of himself. 

“Do you have them too, the memories? Of Martín?” He asks, once he was right by the older version of himself, studying himself up close. Martín would have called it curiosity, were it not for that something in Andrés' demeanor, that magnetic pull, the one he turned up whenever he wanted to get something. Or someone.

The man imperceptibly shakes his head. “This brain underwent successive wipes once they began to suspect that this might have been a cause for all your mindfuck.”

"So you don’t know him.” And Martín  _ knew _ that look, all too well. This was going to be lovely to watch, he realizes. Because when Andrés sets his mind on something, he gets it.

“No. But I would like to; if you’ll allow me.”

Andrés smiles, the same smile reflected back at him, and Martín just feels his mouth open as the two men carefully - slowly - lean into each other and  _ kiss _ . It was a brief kiss, more of a brush of lips than the jaw-unhinging kisses his Andrés, his husband, usually gave Martín, and he still feels like his mind is peeling off. He felt a headache incoming, or maybe a nosebleed, and he must look appropriately affected, because the older Andrés asks, concerned, if he’s okay. 

“Fuck, no. In the best of ways; no.” He pauses for a moment, trying to catch a thought, any viable one. “I keep expecting to wake up; you have no idea what this is doing to me. God, I need to lay down.”

“Love, you are already sitting down.”

“Yes, right, good point.” He found that he could not stop nodding, slowly but with no intention of stopping. 

There was a different kind of unspoken understanding between the two men, who approached him and sat on either side of him. 

“Here, let me help”, the voice was faintly deeper than that of his Andrés, who was holding him and gently helping him to lay down on the pillow. Twin smiles flashed his way, and Martín had to close his eyes, to stop for a second the absolutely insane sight before him. 

“Breathe with me?” offered the younger Andrés, and Martín tried to, he really tried, but ended up laughing.

“No, this isn’t going to work. I don’t have nearly enough blood in circulation for me to fully process this.” He opened his eyes, then relented to the confused looks. “If I don’t come right now I’ll probably get brain damage.”

“Martín.” 

“Husband.”

“I love it when you call me that.”

“I know, it’s why I do it. Now, for the love of all that is holy, will someone please,  _ please _ , help me come?” It was a bold assumption, a bold request, but if there ever was a time to be bold, this was it.

The older Andrés slowly peels the sheet away, exposing Martín’s purple cock, and begins to run his hands up along his thighs. 

“And here I thought we’d have to ease you into it.” says the younger version of Andrés.

“Well, I do understand what you see in him. He’s- You’re gorgeous. Can I kiss you?” he looks at Andrés first, then at Martín.

Martín nods, a less nervous nod this time, though he could still feel the blood thumping in his ears. The man leans down, places a hand gently on Martín’s cheek, and presses his lips to the corner of Martín’s mouth, tentative, almost hesitant. Martín turns into the kiss, and- yeah, it’s different, more restrained, with curious little pecks and nibs at his lips that make Martín tingle all over. He doesn’t get a chance to fully map out all the different ways in which his tongue explores his mouth because his husband’s hand wraps around his cock, starting to stroke him just the way Martín needs it. 

“Fuck, Andrés, yeah. Yes. God, jesus fuck and all the--” the rest of the blasphemous thought dies in his throat when the older Andrés moves lower, shoots his younger self a devious smile, then opens his mouth to lick at the head of Martín’s cock. Just a lick, an innocuous, simple wet-skin on dry-skin brief contact and Martín twitches as if burned by hot iron. “Fuck, fucking-”

“He has quite the mouth on him, this one.” says the older man, breathing hotly against Martín’s cock.

And Martín wants to say something, something cocky and verging on stupid about having mouths on him, but the older Andrés gets there on his own, swallowing the head of his cock and running the tip of his tongue under the rim. It doesn’t take a second before the younger one leans in, careful not to knock his head against his older self, and starts lapping at the base of Martín’s cock. 

It’s- It’s definitely too much, in terms of imagery at least. Sensation-wise, it’s certainly not enough - there’s not enough pressure, no rhythm, nothing that, on its own, should make this as brain-meltingly hot as it is. And then the two Andréses meet in a butterfly kiss around his length and Martín is sure something in his brain broke, irrevocably, but he absolutely does not regret it. He gets lost in the red of their lips, barely meeting around the pink-purple of his cock, different shades of glistening red flashing in their wake as their tongues move in the most maddening, spine-curling but ultimately inefficient way. 

“Fuuuuck.“ he draws out a breath through gritted teeth. “Seriously, Andrés;  _ la concha de tu madre, just- _ -Let me.” He gets his hand around his dick, working himself fast, before a new thought flashes in his head. He has no idea how this whole thing works, but decides to go for the question anyway. Boldly.

“Will you two kiss for me?” he asks, as if the men were taking requests. Which, as it seems, they were, lifting their heads just a bit to properly kiss above his furiously pumping hand. He hits his husband’s chin on an upstroke, and he breaks the kiss for a second to give a teasing suck on his cockhead, then goes right back into the kiss in that snake-like way he did, and that absolutely did it for Martín. 

He’s laughing as he comes, hotly, into his husband’s mouth - unsure when he got there, but it’s not like it really matters. He’s laughing as his cock pulses, tremors of his release getting lost in the heaving of his body. He’s laughing because this is ridiculous, this is mad, it’s the hottest thing that not even his own depraved mind could have come up with on its own, and it’s only getting better - and way, way worse. 

He should have expected this, he really should have - he knows his Andrés, after all - but it still shocks him when it happens, when his husband, lawfully wedded in front of a God that should probably smite them on the spot; when he leans in and kisses his older self, a bit of Martín’s come sliding obscenely down his chin. He’s more than a little bit broken by the image, the act, by reality itself, and he fixates on one of those slick drops of come and how the older man tips younger Andrés’ head back to chase it with his tongue.

That’s it, Martín is ready to tap out - even though, bless his twenty two year old body - he’s already getting hard again. Already, and he thinks he can’t possibly take any more of this, because nothing else can happen to top the absolute debauchery he just witnessed.

And one of them is still fully fucking dressed. 

“Neither of you has any right to be this handsome. And you’re a  _ baby _ , Andrés.” He’s looking at his husband, who’s decidedly  _ not _ a baby. Though, after having seen him age over and over again, the ripe old age of twenty fucking six sure feels like infanthood. “And you” Martín looks at the older Andrés and can’t contain a smile. “I mean. I’m both into older guys and into Andrés, so this whole thing you’ve got going on? It’s doing  _ things _ to me. All kinds of things.” 

His Andrés sighs, ever so slightly annoyed, and Martín knows, he knows how much he fought to resist Martín’s daddy kink - and how often he failed. It’s shaping up to be quite the night, and the only thing on the forefront of Martín’s mind is now hydration. Proper hydration, electrolytes if possible. It’s not often that you get seconds at the exclusive restaurant that is life, and Martín wants to be fucking ready for it. 

“So I’m going to the kitchen to get us some water,” maybe a sandwich too, he thinks briefly before remembering the inherent unsexiness of actually making sandwiches, “you may want to remove some of those layers.” He looks at the older man as he’s sliding into the kitchen, the tile cold under his feet, then remembers something and turns around to add. “I’d say ‘don't start without me' but by all means, do."

Yeah, so he's greedy. Fuck it. It’s fine, he’s allowed to be greedy from time to time. Which, in itself, is true; except he’s greedy a lot of the time. He steals things, for fucks sake. Not the career choice of people content with what they have. 

  
  


Martín returns to the room, precariously holding three glasses and a bottle of water, the cold condensation shocking right through his skin where it’s pressed against his chest. He’s a bit disappointed to see that the two men are just talking, so he decides to be courteous, and fills the glasses. 

“So, uh, did you change your mind and decide to do all that talking  _ now _ ?”

“No, love. We were just negotiating.”

“Oh. What--”

“Negotiating who’s allowed to do what to you.”

“I feel so objectified right now.” Says Martín, feeling nothing of the sort since he’d apparently decided that the whole thing would be both  _ for _ and  _ about _ him. Sure Andrés would enjoy dicking himself - I mean, have you seen him? Who wouldn’t! But he has two Andrés to play with so yeah, it’s definitely about him. “And what’s the consensus?” 

“You’ll find out.”

And that- that doesn’t sound bad at all. The older Andrés is still fully dressed - in a three-piece suit, of course, because apparently his fashion sense was something that  _ successive _ mind-wipes couldn’t remove from who Andrés was. 

“So,” Martín addresses the older man, “you may be overdressed for the occasion.”

A smile, a twinkle in his eye, and his husband beckons Martín to the bed where they were both sat. “Would you like to undress him?” 

Martín ponders for a second. “I’d much rather you did it, love. I need that image in my head.”

Martín sat down on the bed, his fingers brushing along his husband’s arm as he stood up. His Andrés gave him a smile before reaching to the older version of himself, accepting his hand and allowing himself to be pulled closer. There was no rush in their movements, and Martín thought that’s what he must look like when he helps his husband out of his clothes. 

They keep their eyes locked; of course Andrés wouldn’t even need to look at his fingers as he slips the buttons open, layer by layer, only pushing the jacket off the older man’s shoulders once the shirt underneath is also opened, showing the silver in his chest hair. He lets it fall to the floor, like the vest and the shirt underneath it, shooting Martín a brief look before starting to work on undoing the trousers. He kneels as he pushes them down along with the underwear and Martín swallows hard, not daring to breathe in anticipation.

Martín can’t hide his disappointment when Andrés gets back on his feet - instead of doing the obvious thing, which would have been to get his gorgeous mouth on the equally gorgeous dick in front of him. But this is just as good, the two of them kissing once more, the older Andrés cupping his younger counterpart’s face with careful fingers. _ So tactile, _ he muses. 

Stupidly, Martín feels left out, so he moves to sit on the edge of the bed, beckoning the two men closer, guiding them close enough that they bracket his knees, left and right, looking down at him with matching soft smiles. He grabs the older Andrés’ cock with a light touch, smiling at the newness of something he’s all too familiar with. He looks up, shooting a questioning look, asking for permission, assessing his reaction, anything - and he gets a small nod in return. 

The first thing he notices as he licks up the cock in his mouth is that the older man uses a different soap than his Andrés. It smells clean, antiseptic even, but he longs to feel the taste of him, so he buries his nose in the dark curls around the base, breathing in the faint musk there. That, that he knows, and it’s the same mindfuck, knowing it’s the same person and yet, not at all. The noises he makes, they’re familiar and new at the same time, and Martín decides he wants to hear more of those so he wraps his lips around the shaft, taking him in as far as he can.

Martín feels the older Andrés’ hands hover above his shoulders, his head, and his husband says, _ the absolute fucker _ , “you can pull his hair, he loves that.” Which- true, he does, but Martín felt like it was still unfair ammo to provide to a third party.

The man doesn’t grab, not immediately, massaging Martín’s scalp at first and only then, when Martín relaxes into the touch, he curls his fingers around the hair, making Martín look up, panting, as he speaks.

“Look at you, you take it so pretty.” Martín pulls back against the tug in his hair to take the cock out of his mouth, trying to regain his breath. “Thank you for being so good to me, Martín.” 

Isn’t that cute, he thinks he’s the one being spoiled. Martín decides to go back to the task - or rather, dick - at hand, but not before licking his other palm to get it thoroughly wet. As soon as he gets his slick hand into the mix, the older Andrés sighs and relaxes under his tongue. Of course he would, Martín does know many things, and one of them is how to please Andrés - in whichever body he may be.

It doesn’t take long though, he’s barely gotten into a good rhythm with a good mix of things, but the man takes a sharp inhale and gently pulls at his hair. He closes his eyes, as if to compose himself, then leans closer. “I think you’re forgetting someone; would you be a good boy and suck off your husband?”

Even without being told, he would have; Martín rebelled in his mind for a bit, but especially when it was phrased like that he will. He gives a wide smile, turning to Andrés who inches closer as the older man takes a step to the side.

Yeah, it’s easy with them - and sure, he’s more than easy himself, ready to fall to his knees at the first explicit thought painted on Andrés’ face - it’s easy because they know each other. And they trust each other.

Martín reaches to take Andrés’ cock in hand but he kneels in front of him, ever so slowly, cupping Martín’s head and whispering, “I love you more than  _ diamonds.”  _ Stressing the word, reminding Martín. He nods, slowly, in understanding.  _ ‘Say it and I’ll stop.’ _ something he knew too well.

Then he stands up, cupping a gentle hand on the back of Martín’s head. He gives a wet lap at the head of his cock, then wraps his lips around it and hums for a second, delighted. 

There’s an imperceptible tension in the room, like the air was stretched tight, and it all breaks when Andrés shakes his head and taps Martín’s shoulder. 

“Ah- I have a better idea.” 

Andrés always has good ideas, so Martín stops his bobbing, replacing his mouth with his pumping hand as he looked up, expectantly. 

“On the bed.” Andrés says, no clearer, but Martín scrambles to get further on the bed, the older man’s hands coming up to help him lay on the pillows. He accepts the help - definitely a pleasure to get more of those hands on him - and he looks at him, starting to see a tiny problem - two bodies, one name, and he’s sure to be screaming it by the end of the night. Martín just wants a bit of clarity.

“Thank you, um-”

“Call me Berlín.”

And fuck, that-- That worked, he could work with that. 

“Berlín.”

He splays out on the bed, resting on his elbows, and he notices Berlín looking at him, scanning his body with a slight twinkle in his eyes.

“You’re such a pretty little twink.” He says, and even though it’s obviously meant fondly, it somehow comes out as mildly offensive.

" _ Not _ a twink." Martín protests, even though he knows full well that he is, he is definitely a twink - with all the gangliness inherent in his young body, all limbs and floppy hair. He was an old soul, sure, but currently very much a twink.

“Now,  _ Berlín _ and I talked,” Said Andrés who decided to stay out of that particular argument, “and he feels awfully sorry for interrupting us. How about we pick up where we left off?”

The thing was, the bed was more than enough when they were _ pleasantly _ interrupted; while now things felt a little more cramped. Berlín has joined them on the bed, coming up behind Andrés, tilting his head back for an awkward kiss. 

Berlín hands Andrés the bottle of lube he’s retrieved from the night stand, he squirts some on his fingers, and Martín gets the message, spreading his legs to welcome Andrés as he crawls on top of him, hand slipping between his thighs. They were fucking not half an hour ago, so not a lot of prep is needed, but lube, yeah, you can never have too much lube. 

He nods when he feels he’s ready, and Andrés knows by now not to argue - not about this. He lines himself up, pushing in. 

And yes, it’s not the first time they brought a third in their bed, and he knows how much Andrés loves to watch, but this feels different, he didn’t feel like a stranger. He watches Berlín, now kneeling by Martín’s side, stroking himself slowly, while he’s getting lost in the way his body echoes the thrusts and rolls of Andrés’ hips, when suddenly Berlín decides he’d stop watching. He leans in, placing the faintest kiss on Martín’s forehead, then whispers, “You’re gorgeous, Martín; do you know that? I bet he tells you all the time. He should; you are.” Martín feels Andrés nodding against his shoulder where his head is buried. He wants to see him, he wants to see him and say so many things, he wants to say, ‘ _thank you’,_ _‘fuck, yes_ , he wants to say _‘I love you’_ and maybe, for some reason, _‘please’._

He says none of those things, even after guiding his head so they can lock eyes, and he’s lost then, looking up at his husband - what a lovely word, how little it encompassed of what they were - who understands it all. He always did, in ways that even Martín didn’t know himself sometimes. 

Andrés smiles down at him, slowing to a stop between his thighs. “I know.”

It makes Martín melt, just a bit, to hear that. It feels relieving. To know that someone else knows you, and still loves you. That you can be who you are around them, all naked inside, and they’d still choose to hold you close and tell you, they’d tell you it’s alright. It’s fine. You’re good. You’re his-

_ “Good boy.”  _

Martín stops at the words. He stops breathing for a beat, because of how they hit him. Their meaning gets stuck in his throat, then slides lower, to his heart, where they bury themselves and grow. It takes him a second, but he starts breathing again, and it’s easier somehow, like his chest has opened right up.

Andrés knew what he wanted, and it was for Martín to be a  _ good boy. _ And even though more often than not Andrés wasn’t the best at reading people, this? It filled the exact shape of _ need _ that Martín had.

Best thing about it?

Andrés meant it.

So of course he melted just a little. It was his brain telling his body,  _ it’s going to be okay. It’s alright. You’re alright. _

This thing,  _ their _ thing, something that Andrés had somehow honed into since the first night they spent together; it confused Martín at first. He didn’t realize how much he needed it, the comfort of knowing he was  _ good _ ; he was enough, he was perfect as he was. Especially coming from Andrés, especially given their past with the Agency. It’s been centuries, it was all in the past, but it still proved to be a ghost that never left them. So yes. Martín  _ was _ a good boy. For Andrés. 

The harder Andrés thrusts, the harder he pushes back, digging his elbows in the mattress, legs wrapped around his back, and the praise never stops coming.

“Look at you, you take it so well.”

“God, love, you’re so beautiful.”

“Yes, that- do that-” when he clenches, without even realizing, wrenching a moan from Andrés.

It gets harder to focus when Berlín kneels up on the bed, leaning in for a kiss from Andrés who enthusiastically obliges, then dipping to cup Martín’s chin, drawing him up for a kiss of their own. Martín thinks he’s going to die like that, drenched in the sweat that’s squelching sloppily between their bodies, and he feels hungry and needy and pissed off, just a little bit, that he feels like he might come soon.

“Wait-” It’s all he has to say, and Andrés stops, looking at him.

“I- I don’t want to come just yet.” 

Andrés leans in for a breathless kiss.

“Such a good boy, trying to hold on for me; thank you.”

Andrés shoots him a crooked smile before pulling out and beckoning Martín to turn and sit up. It’s a strange little dance, hands are guiding him, supporting him, and their legs keep bumping into each other. Berlín settles in front of him, holding his hips steady when Andrés slips back in, slick, cupping his jaw for a kiss that simply came out as _ sweet. _ It was all about the hands with Berlín, fingers gently caressing his face as they kissed, then wandering lower, spreading out over his chest, his stomach. 

He wants something else from those hands, so he pulls Berlín closer, flush to his hips so their erections brush against each other, then takes one of Berlín's hands in his own and wraps it around both their cocks. He doesn’t need to say anything, and he leaves his hand there, wrapped around Berlín’s, as he watches him take over and stroke them. 

And maybe it is a little dry, but it’s still tight and hard and velvety soft, odd little twitches echoing each other under their skin, and it’s made all the better by that constant flicker of almost surprise in Berlín’s eyes, like he, for some reason, didn’t expect it to feel so good. 

“Is that good, love?” Asks Andrés, and it takes him a second to nod, lazily.

Martín is mesmerized, drunk in the moment, high out of his skin, and he looks at Andrés, no, at  _ Berlín _ in front of him, watches the pleasure dance on his face, and he has to see- he has to see his Andrés too. He lets his head fall back against the shoulder behind him but he only sees flashes, then there’s a wet lap of his tongue against his ear and his body relaxes into the thrusts. 

Everything is verging on overwhelming, but the feel of his husband’s body, pressed against his, wet and slippery, it’s oddly grounding. He needs grounding, especially now, when he feels like he’s floating, the way he’s caught between the two. 

He’s lost. Lost in his thoughts, lost in the push and pull of the bodies around him, lost in the way his body hums low, a wave of want that only grows stronger. There’s a cut whine from Andrés, broken by gasps, from where he’s plastered to his back and he knows, he knows he’s close. He’s close too, has been for a while, but he’s clinging on, not wanting this to end. 

“You feel so good, love.” And his voice is shaking, as are his hands where they’re buried in his hips.

When Berlín kisses him, soft and sweet, such a contrast to how his own Andrés kisses, Martín just looks at him. It’s strange to see him like this, a face he knows so well, a look he can read like a book, but inside- inside there’s someone new. Someone else, someone like them, but not quite. This was Andrés, the good little soldier, designed to kill - and yet, here he was. Disobeying. What a cosmic joke on the Agency, Martín thinks and can’t stop a smile, that even after successive memory wipes, the mold that is Andrés’ brain is still attracted to Martín. He feels powerful in the moment, to be a corrupting element for two Agents, to fuck the Agency over even more. And it feels good, so vindicating, that he plunges back in, grabs Berlín’s face, locks his fingers in his hair and guides his face up. 

Berlín doesn’t even flinch, he doesn’t close his eyes, looking at Martín through half-lidded eyes. Defiant. 

What he wouldn't do to be inside his brain at that moment, to hear what’s going on behind those burning eyes. It’s a small struggle, he can see it, he can feel it, even though Berlín never stops moving his hand, bucking his hips into their interlaced fists. He’s there but he’s also somewhere else, somewhere heavy, he’s someplace that’s burning him - so Martín has to try to stoke those embers that he sees glinting.

“You? You’re-” A particularly hard thrust makes him curl his spine and forget, for just a second, before coming back to himself. “You’re  _ bad. _ What would HQ say if they saw you now.” 

Berlín’s eyes open wider and he stares at him, in wonder, and Martín knows he’s hit his mark. The Agency is all that Berlín knows; that displaced sense of duty, the loyalty, it’s all the life he’s ever known and yet here he is, spilling HQ’s secrets, taking a forbidden trip to the taboo that is Andrés de Fonollosa. Also fucking him and his husband, that has to be a pretty serious infraction, though it’s probably not addressed in any FAQ section in the standard operating procedures. 

“You’re bad.” he repeats, and his hand around their lengths loosens just a bit as a shiver runs through him.

“Martín-” Andrés is cautious, slowing down, hands sliding up and down Martín’s sides. 

“No, he is. He’s a bad Agent, and he  _ loves it. _ Don’t you?” He doesn’t take his eyes from the man in front of him, relishing in how he watches him, eyes lost in trying to understand.

“But we’re good to the bad ones here, aren’t we? You’re free here, Berlín. You’re free to be who you are, we don’t judge. What do you want? We’ll give it to you.” He tugs a bit at the hair, more to punctuate than to hurt, and Berlín holds his breath for just a moment.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Martín smiles, and he just wants- he needs to take him now. He nods. 

Berlín’s words have quite the effect on Andrés, Martín can feel it in the snap of his hips, one hand firmly wrapped around Martín’s middle, the other slowly cupping Martín’s jaw, tipping his head back until his spine arches and bows.    
  
“How do you want to do this, love?”

Great question if there ever was any, and Martín gets momentarily lost in the possibilities. 

“It depends, how close are you?”

“Hair’s breadth away, really; just-”

The fingers on his chin tease higher, caressing the arch of his lips, and Martín obediently opens, allowing two of them to brush past his lips, past the graze of his teeth and onto his tongue. It’s easy, really, to close his lips and to  _ suck. _ And it’s the right thing to do, because Andrés pulls him even closer in that punishing rhythm that can only mean one thing- 

Martín unlaces his fingers from Berlín’s hair and reaches back, trying to cup Andrés’ head and quite possibly poking him in the eye before doing so.

“Fuck-  _ Fuck! _ ” Andrés’ head falls on Martín’s shoulder and his hips give one last thrust, two, before he stills and grunts as he comes with a full-body shiver. The fingers in Martín’s mouth curl against his tongue, almost painfully, and Martín bites down until Andrés’ vicious grasp around his midriff lets up.

“Fuck, Martín,  _ my eye!”  _

How can he  _ not _ laugh?

Andrés pulls out, swatting one hard slap against Martín’s butt, which lands hotter than expected on his wet skin. He’s still laughing, but he thinks to apologize.

Berlín’s grasp on both their dicks had long gone too lax to do anything, really, so Martín places a kiss on the corner of his mouth to echo the first one they shared, and turns around to comfort his husband. He apologizes in the form of sweet pecks placed tactically on the tears rolling from his closed eye, then on the fingers that are rubbing it. 

“Are you okay?” He leans in to look once Andrés hesitantly opens his eye, a bit red but otherwise looking okay.  _ Okay, _ as if anything about Andrés is ever just ‘okay’, instead of a superlative.

“I’m fine.” He  _ is _ fine, though maybe a little bit annoyed, so Martín pushes him back, making him almost fall off the bed and crawls on top of him for a minute, forgetting about Berlín who sits back on his haunches, content in just watching them. 

Martín allows them just a couple of moments of post-coital cuddling before getting up to look at Berlín. 

“To quote a living master, how do you want to do this?” 

Berlín looks at him, licks his lips, and Martín is quite curious about what’s about to come out of that mouth and is pleased to hear that it’s, “I want to look at you.” Lovely, because Martín really wanted to stare into those beautiful eyes while he was railing him. 

Martín makes a small show of crawling the little distance to Berlín, pushing him back on the mattress and straddling him wordlessly, not looking back at Andrés but knowing full well that he’s being watched. 

Berlín looks every bit the match to his name and it’s still messing with Martín’s head a little, but he tries to remember who the man really is. It’s as evident as ever when they kiss, his lips softer, more discovery than hunger, and he feels oddly gentler. Which is truly surprising, coming from an Agent; Martín was definitely not expecting that, but he’s certainly not complaining. 

What he wants to do is to run his tongue all over that body, to make him squirm, so he lets his tongue trail free from the kiss, messy and wet, running it through the faint stubble and up, up until he reaches the ear. 

“So I was thinking-” He starts but can’t decide. He’s been thinking a lot of things. “I was wondering if you usually like to be fucked, or if I’m in some privileged position here, if I should feel in some way honored-” He cuts off Berlín who opened his mouth to say something, the fog of his breath hot on Martín’s throat. “No, better not tell me. Let me find out for myself. Will you?” A gulp, a nod. Good. 

He trails his tongue down along the neck, over the hard curve of the collarbone, flicking over one nipple - to less of a reaction than he’d hoped for. So he switches gears as soon as he senses the deep musk, strangely different than Andrés’, moving to lift one of Berlín’s arms up as he licks up from ribcage to forearm, relishing in both the taste and the jolt he gets as he laps right through the hair in his armpit. Not ticklish, but judging by the way his hips bucked, he enjoyed it. 

“Mm,” he hums, “So you like things a little messy, don’t you? A little dirty? Well, you’re in luck, because I’m  _ a lot _ dirty.” 

He hears Andrés make a noise from beside them, so he shoots him a quick look. Andrés is looking at them from where he lays, content and still come-drunk, and he is amused, intrigued, encouraging. Martín sends him a kiss, then turns back to Berlín.

“I was thinking,” he says again, careful to lock eyes with the man under him this time, “that I could work you open with my tongue, how does that sound?”

“Marvelous.”

Martín laughs. He slips lower, between Berlín’s thighs, shouldering them open further so he can bury his nose at the base of his cock and inhale the musk and sweat there. Definitely different; it’s all chemistry in action, and it  _ works _ \- Martín feels it deep in the pit of his stomach, a slither of need, so he noses his way lower. The thighs open more, and it’s sweltering hot and the scent gets only stronger and Martín follows it, palms pushing the thighs up as he laps at that tight furl of his hole. 

It’s instant, Berlín’s reaction, the sharp cut of his inhale, and Martín almost stops for a second to enjoy it but decides against it, lapping further, lost in the sounds and he knows, even though he has absolutely no basis for what’s basically an assumption, that this? All of it, it’s new territory for Berlín. He feels emboldened, rolling his tongue and darting it right in, past that first ring of muscle, and yeah, the way his hips cant upwards, bucking up against nothing at all, that it’s definitely the precise amount of wrong to be right for Berlín. 

Andrés is suddenly right there, holding the bottle of lube, upturned and with the cap popped open in an invitation that Martín accepts, stretching his palm in expectation. He doesn’t get what he expected, Andrés taking hold of his hand and sucking two of his fingers in a way that definitely, one hundred percent goes straight to his own cock, and only for a moment he forgets what he was doing. The tongue beneath his fingers rolls, spreading them, getting them wet, and Martín reluctantly pulls them out to go for a kiss instead. 

When he breaks away, breathless, he offers Andrés his hand again, and a glob of lube lands on his palm. He coats his fingers as he’s leaning back in, mouthing at the wet skin, working his finger right by it, pressing just the pad to the tight opening. Berlín moans, the sound getting muffled by what’s sure to be Andrés’ mouth on his. But as much as he wants to see - he’ll never get over that image, of the two of them liplocked; it will be forever engraved in his brain - he works the tip of his finger in, slowly, licking around it. 

Andrés helps, with his mouth on Berlín’s, his fingers around his cock, and it makes it all the easier to open him up. The lube tastes like nothing where he licks around his fingers; it’s just fluid, a thick texture mixing with his spit, and Berlín is squirming so prettily, so needy.

“Are you okay?” Andrés asks, because Berlín had taken a breath and is still holding it, and Martín looks up but yes, he releases the breath, blinking bewildered, shaking his head no while saying  _ yes. _

“Yes or no?” Andrés prods further, and Martín stills his fingers. 

“Yes.” He finally nods. “Yes, it’s- yes. I want  _ you.” _

“Anything you want, love. You can have anything you want here.”

He pumps his fingers just a couple of times more before pulling them out and lining himself up. He takes just a second, an unsexy but necessary thought working its way into his brain.

“Condom?” He asks, a whole sentence in a word, but Berlín gets the meaning.

“We get regularly tested at HQ, these bodies are very well taken care of.” Martín wonders at this strange little separation of Agent and his body. “I’m clean. You--”

“We play smart,” Martín answers, “clean all around. At least when it comes to our bodies.” He quirks his lips in a smile, then stretches his back just a bit as he gets up, his spine popping gently with the strain. 

He’s holding his breath at the first push of his cockhead through the slippery ring of muscle, exhaling in a shudder as he slips inside in one smooth push. He has to hold himself there, hands on either side of Berlín's head, watching the ripples of pleasure run through the body beneath him. He looks for a sign, anything, and when Berlín finds his eyes, he’s all fire and want, and he nods.

It’s a cheap parallel that his mind instantly makes when he finds himself there, framed by those strong thighs, thrusting in that tight heat, deep inside him; he thinks of the first time he went horseback riding. There’s the same flutter in his heart at having such a beautiful animal under him, with all its strength and undeniable ability to buck him off and stop him underfoot, and yet- it’s accepting him. Letting him. And it’s not fear this time around, but it’s the immediate rush that he came after that - the sense of power that runs through him, the knowledge that he can tame that man beneath him. He’s in charge, because he’s  _ allowed _ to be. 

Berlín is involved - actively involved, wrapping his legs around Martín’s back, pulling himself into the thrusts, fingers curled around the edge of the mattress for leverage. He’s chasing every single thrust of Martín’s hips, so he turns to roll them instead, wanting to see how far Berlín would follow. And follow he does, skin taught under straining muscles where he’s pushing against the headboard now, a fiercely determined look on his face and- It gets too much, too fast. 

“The thing is-” Martín’s brows furrow as the heat around him clenches, sending shocks all the way up his spine, “the thing is I’m not going to last nearly as much as I want to, love. You’re-” He moans, a little for show a lot for need. “You’re too good. How about if Andrés takes over? Would you like that?”

Andrés perks up, eyeing Berlín expectantly.

“Would you like to look yourself in the eye as you come, riding your own dick?” It’s delicious, to see how his words land, how they soak into Berlín’s expression, how he arches and grabs at the edge of the mattress.

“Yes,” he manages, breathlessly. “Yes.” More firmly, turning to look at Andrés who’s leaning closer, going for one of his open mouthed kisses.

“You can have anything you want,” Martín repeats, “You are free to just  _ want _ here.”

He knows it, he knows what it’s like to be an Agent; to be conditioned to obey, to only  _ do _ . But here, with the two of them, Berlín can want, can ask, can receive. Maybe it will inch him further into that world of disobedience, the same one that made Martín defect, the one that eventually made him free. And he thinks, he’d really like to give Berlín that, the realisation that freedom is possible, it’s desirable even.

“I want to see you come.” He says, and Martín does, nearly instantly. 

It catches him by surprise, and he grabs Berlín’s hand where it went to cup his cheek, squeezing the bones in his wrists as he goes breathless and buries himself deeper, spilling in rhythmic pumps. He pulls out before he’s done coming, a couple of splashes of white landing on Berlín’s stomach, marking him, the sight making Martín feel dizzy for a second. He turns to look at Andrés, kneeling right beside him, and he looks enrapt. 

Martín doesn’t have enough of anything left in him to do more than to inelegantly drop by Berlín’s side, rolling over to catch his lips in a kiss, then moving to his own side of the bed to get a better view. 

Andrés straddles him lightly, stealing his own lazy kiss, then settles his head in the crook of Martín’s shoulder.

“You were beautiful, love. I love seeing you like that.” He stretches a hand in an invitation that Berlín accepts, leaning over to place a kiss on his lips as well.

“Would you like to ride me?” Asks Andrés, and the almost-casual tone of the not-at-all-casual question makes Martín’s spent dick twitch just a bit.

A nod, and Andrés motions Berlín to sit and take his place on the mattress. Martín decides to breathe through his nose, and he can’t stop an honest-to-god giggle at the image. Looking at Berlín was disconcerting, but at both Berlín  _ and _ Andrés? 

Andrés sits up, cupping Berlín’s face as he eases him down on his cock, and braces himself against the mattress for leverage. It’s mad, seeing them like that, Martín’s brain is still struggling to filter what’s happening, eyes flicking between the both of them, unsure of what to focus on. 

The room feels too hot, now that the sweat dried on Martín’s skin, it’s hot and the only sounds are their grunts and moans, and the obscene slap of skin against skin. Berlín leans back, unfolding his legs behind Andrés, leaning back against his arms in search of just the right angle, his body a curved bowstring, staining as he pushes back. 

Martín looks at them with a certainly misplaced sense of fondness, still sporting that stupid smile of his, a delightful giddiness as his body’s response to what he sees. He’s satiated, sure, and his dick twitches with unfounded optimism, but he’s still more than interested.

He wants to get in there, maybe to get behind his husband, to wrap himself behind him, to run his fingers along the beautiful planes of his body, but he knows they’d get tangled in their limbs. Instead, he slowly gets up on his knees, shuffles close to the side of them and kisses them both, one by one. Martín can sense it, in the quiver of Andrés’ taut belly, in the way Berlín’s muscles are wound under the skin, that it won’t take long. 

Andrés doesn’t tease Berlín, he doesn’t try to prove anything, to make him see anything. He’s just chasing their release, determined, eyes locked with Berlín’s to gauge, to guide himself. And Martín knows the instant it happens, when Andrés is right on the precipice, by the way his brow furrows and his fingers curl around Berlín’s cock, pumping in an uneven rhythm. Berlín comes first, scrambling to get up and wrap his arms around Andrés as he grunts and spills in thick ropes against his chest, and Andrés follows with a gasp, burying himself deeper, going in for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. 

Martín opens the window wide, breathing in the cool night air, waiting for his turn in the shower. Andrés took Berlín to shower together, and Martín decided to give them a little privacy. And as filled with thoughts as his mind had been before, it was currently, blissfully quiet in there, so he settles on the bed, basking. He wakes a while later when a wet cloth wipes him down, Andrés’ voice shushing him gently. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Do you want to go take a proper shower?”

Martín shakes his head; he doesn’t want to be awake, let alone in the shower.

“Scoot,” Says Andrés, “make room for Berlín.”

When Martín wakes, the sun is up, the window’s still open and yet he’s uncomfortably hot, sweaty and sticky where he’s caught between Berlín and Andrés’ bodies. He looks up to see Berlín, his features relaxed under the veil of sleep, and he feels his husband hugging him from behind, his arm wrapped around his chest. 

He almost didn’t expect Berlín to still be there in the morning. The previous night seemed like a fever dream now, in the light of day, and Martín was still mildly incredulous that it had happened. 

Berlin wakes with a small grunt, leaning back a bit until his eyes focus on Martin. 

“I’m glad you didn’t bail on us.” He says, softly, with a smile.   
  
Berlín looks at him, a touch confused, but then he hesitantly leans over, and places another one of his soft kisses on Martín’s lips. 

“Why would I leave?”   
  
“I don’t know, things got a bit… intense last night. I’m just saying, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you wanted to leave.”

Berlín shook his head. 

There’s a small shuffle behind him, a kiss against his shoulder, and Andrés unwraps his arm from around Martín’s chest, stretching with a yawn and a shiver. 

“Good morning, you two.” He extends his hand over Martín to briefly touch Berlín’s arm in a small gesture of acknowledgement. 

“I’m in dire need of caffeine, anyone want to join me in the kitchen?”

Martín looks at Berlín as they both shake their heads, and Andrés hesitates for a second before getting out of the bed. He beckons Martín for a kiss, then heads out.

It’s just the two of them now, and it’s quiet, save for the bubbling sounds of boiling water coming from the kitchen and the water running in the bathroom where Andrés is brushing his teeth. It’s comfortable and intimate, and Martín quietly runs his fingers through the thatch of hair on Berlín’s chest. 

“Thank you.” Berlín says, shifting closer, placing a kiss on top of Martín’s head. Sweet, the man is  _ sweet _ , and Martín looks up at him, once more surprised at the dichotomy behind those eyes. He’s an Agent, a soldier, a killer, and yet- he feels like so much more.

Minutes later, Andrés comes back with a tray carrying three cups of steaming coffee. It’s not easy to detangle from the sheets, from each other, but Martín and Berlín finally manage to, and they each pull up a chair and sit at the small table. 

After taking the first sip of coffee, but before feeling like his brain has fully awakened, Martín addresses Berlín.

“What will you tell HQ about your disappearance?”

“They don’t know and won’t find out. I have my ways.”

And well. That sounded like a sentence that held more meaning than the bare words. 

“Ways?”   
  
“I can slip away unmonitored, and- And I do.”

Tantalizing. Martín is pleasantly intrigued at the fresh knowledge that the Agent is even more of a rebel than he’d initially thought. 

“Come on, Berlín. What do you do when you jump, unmonitored? It can’t all be threesomes.” He looks up, uncertain about what he wants to hear. “Is it?”   


Berlín smirks.

“No, I have to say this is quite unusual for me, too.”

Martín looks at him, leaning on silence to bring forth more information. And it does.

“I’ve found a way to bring the Agency down.”

Martín stops. That’s- certainly a lot. It’s huge, and he doesn’t know how to react. Beside him, Andrés is equally taken aback by Berlín’s words.

“I had a feeling you might be interested.”

“Wait, so you came here to recruit us into destroying the Agency, but you decided to get your dick wet first?”

“I- I only took what was offered to me. Besides, I didn’t know you. I didn’t know for sure that you were indeed an Agent. It was a gamble, but in the best case scenario, you were, and thus you had deserted. So it was a good chance you’d be an ally. The both of you.”

“I mean,” Martín offers, “that makes some sort of sense, but. Really? You went for the sex first?”

Andrés smiles, looking at Martín fondly. Of course he’d be an ally too, he knew what the Agency was, what they did. And if they had a chance to stop them, they would.

“I-” Berlín says, tactfully drinking some coffee instead of continuing. 

“I, for one, can only congratulate you.” Says Andrés. “For both of your choices, both the one to bring the Agency down and the one to join us last night.”

“So. What’s the plan?” Asks Martín.

“Will you join me?”

“Yes.” They both say. “Just as you joined us.” Adds Andrés.

“Well, not  _ just _ like that.” 

Andrés sighs a tired look towards Martín, who laughs, then becomes serious again.

“Yes. Let’s bring those fuckers down.”

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this as I was working on chapter 2 of Parabola, so it was quite planned. You can thank Shotgun_Cake as it was 100% her idea - accompanying illustration:  
> 
> 
> Headcanon: as they age, _‘good boy’_ turns into _‘old chap’._
> 
>  _’Husband’_ count: 20
> 
> Feel free to yell at me on Tumblr! [ DorMarunt](https://dormarunt.tumblr.com/)


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